


Too Close to the Sun

by flibbertygigget



Series: The Other 51 [9]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Allusions to Greek Mythology, Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Barricade, icarus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6390211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the barricade, Grantaire had warned and Lafayette had begged.</p><p>After the barricade, Grantaire paints and Lafayette remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Close to the Sun

When Grantaire awakes, it is to the remains of a massacre. Half the bodies have already been dragged to the carts, leaving dark stains on the cobblestones. The other half lay in pools of their own blood, torn by bullets, eyes open to the sunlight as though that could save them. He stumbles around until he finds the soldiers... and Enjolras.

"What happened here?" he asks. The soldiers turn towards him, away from the body.

"They tried to revolt. Poor bastards. They never had a chance." Grantaire is falling. When he finally makes his way to his apartment, he reaches for the nearest bottle. It is only half-full, so he downs it in one gulp and searches for another. Grantaire needs the oblivion. He cannot bear to think anymore, so he drinks wine.

A few days later, he begins to paint again.

Grantaire has always had an eye for color, a steady hand, and a head for the classics that lent themselves well to painting. He had not picked up a brush since meeting Les Amis, since his head had been filled with revolutions rather than figures, with words rather than light and shadow. But now he cannot stop, cannot resist the urge to pour his drink-numbed soul onto the canvas.

Joly as Aesculapius, snakes whispering in his ears. Feuilly as Eros, offering them all his fans and mirrors. Enjolras as Icarus, face turned upward, defiant in spite of the feathers slipping from his back. Enjolras as Apollo, dazzling, radiant, reaching to grasp for Icarus-Grantaire's hand even as he melts away the remnants of his wings.

It is weeks or months before he hears the soft knock on his door. Grantaire struggles to stand from his seat where he works, but it is in vain. The wine has done its work this morning and left him both numb and stupid.

"The door is unlocked!" he calls out instead, quickly turning back to the half-finished painting before the picture, clear as day, flits like a butterfly from his mind. The door opens, and he can hear the sharp click of heeled boot and the gentle jangling of military medals. Grantaire cannot help but tense. He wishes for oblivion, yes, but he doesn't have the courage of his friends. He cannot stare death in the face and allow it to come.

"Monsieur Grantaire-" Grantaire turns abruptly, swinging his legs so that he is straddling the back of the chair.

"Have you come to arrest me? I assure you, I shall go happily, but I pray that you allow me to finish this painting first." The man is old, as is his military uniform. He stands rigidly, examining the paintings that hang and lean on every surface.

"I have no intention of arresting you, my boy; I do not even have the authority. I simply wish to speak with you." Grantaire examines his warily, but the man seems content to look over the paintings with an apprising eye.

"Who are you?" Grantaire says.

"I am Gilbert Motier, former Marquis de Lafayette, current art enthusiast, occasional revolutionary, often a traitor depending on the time and country."

"That is quite a title," Grantaire says dryly. "Please forgive me if I don't remember it." Motier laughs, clapping his thin hands as though delighted.

"Oh, bravo. I have found a comedian."

"Hardly, I am a simple cynic. Any humor is secondary and coincidental."

"Ah. That would explain your fascination with Icarus." Grantaire feels every muscle grow taut.

"Of course not. I am a painter, nothing more. The classics are my classroom."

"And has your ambition failed you yet?" Motier's fingers trial over the paint of the Icarus-Grantaire. "I have never seen before a picture that connects Icarus to Apollo."

"I live to surprise," Grantaire says. "And this ambition- It is not what I would call bad, just foolish. I try to reach for the heights of gods, and instead..." He gestures around him, at the empty bottles and squalid mattress. "Well, this is where it gets me."

"Yes, your god seems always just a few feet ahead, yet impossible to reach." Motier isn't talking to Grantaire anymore. He seems lost, lost in memory of times long past, almost forgotten. He shakes his head and turns to Grantaire. "I'll admit, there was another reason for my coming here. You were among those at the barricade, were you not?" Grantaire's heart falters in his chest.

"As a matter of speaking," he says. "I was their drunk and their jester."

"Yet they were your friends." Grantaire nods, throat dry. "I'm sorry."

"You told them not to riot." The words are sharp, accusing, as though Grantaire isn't a thousand times worse than Motier. Motier looks older than ever, his shoulders slumping, defeated.

"I have been part of many revolutions. Some have succeeded, most have not. I could tell from the moment that Lemarque died that there would be a revolution, and it would only result in blood spilled- and for what? An ideal France cannot seem to reach? A song?"

"I see that you are a cynic also." Motier shakes his head.

"No, I have old," he says. "Revolution is for the young, those who haven't seen freedom curdle and grow sour, so they believe that they can prevent the earth from going around the sun if they only wish hard enough and die quick enough." He pauses, gazing again at the picture. "I had friends once. John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton, Hercules Mulligan. They are all dead and gone now, but what they fought for survives." He sighs and begins to leave. "I wish that it was so for you."

Grantaire cannot move. He can barely breath. Then, suddenly, he throws the half-finished painting aside, putting a clean canvas in its place. His friends' deaths cannot be in vain. He will then their story, not hidden in allegory and myth, but as it was. He will paint himself his own barricade.


End file.
